Let your Heart Speak
by Aloemilk
Summary: When he'd been diagnosed with a brain tumor, everyone thought surgery would make it better. Then, they thought the coma was the worse that could happen... until he woke up and everything turned upside down. 5th chap,'Under my Skin', now up.
1. Walking Irrationality

So yeah, there was a surgery that changed it all. That means to me that the sequel I wanted to write (that I've had on hold for months, shame on me) and that was originally planned for this title will be left for a future fic, maybe... and I'll use this title and already published story for this all-new fic. It's just that the title fit the plot so much!

The first 2 chaps are part of my oneshot collection, since they inspired this multichap. But the 3rd chapter is all new!

* * *

Typing was all she could do. Somehow, her fingers on the keyboard allowed her to have a connection to reality beyond the glances she couldn't help directing to him—to check if there were any changes, to see if he was finally awake (_He's taking so long to wake up_). Maybe if she kept writing he would feel all she needed him to know.

She knew it was one of the most irrational thoughts she could have. But in this moment, 'irrational' didn't sound so bad. Irrational was just how she felt. Now she understood what it meant when they said love is irrational.

And if she was in love, if she loved him, then there had to be space for irrationality inside her.

That realization was what made her write what she wished was real without the guilt of not being her usual empirical self. It was just a silent message she knew he'd never get but that she still had to put into words in the hope he'd get it, somehow. Even if she rationally knew he couldn't. The irrationality in her told her that maybe he could, and that maybe was enough.

So she wrote. She pushed keys that built words to express and, in the process, accept what she'd had struggled so much to understand. She brought to light the irrationality that led her to dream for the first time, images of loving companionship and a future shared without fears, without restraint, all because they had what she'd taken so long to see not only as trust, but as faith.

She put herself into the position of being brave and making the intangible something real. If she felt herself starting to categorize and judge what appeared on the screen, she just blocked it out of her mind and emotions—years of compartmentalizing in the opposite direction made it easier than she would have thought possible—and let the flow of images take hold on reality through her fingertips.

And it was real. It was him waiting for her in their bed, telling her he loved her and how he wanted to prove it to her (_oh, Booth, please tell me you love me_); it was him who was the one to support her when she had to face the murdered body (_I'm not as brave as I make it look like. I need you beside me, now, to be all that I am_), the one to beam at the prospect of parenthood, of sharing a baby together.

_I want to have all those things with you._

_Because even if we break each other's hearts in trying, the burden of the risk is surpassed by the chance of love._

She finished that idea and read it on the screen.

She read how it had translated to a love that could make her fly.

But with him in that state (_look at him... that's the man that I love_), she had to learn first how to walk.

Her finger hovered over the keyboard, leaning into a certain key. Hesitating for a moment, she finally gathered the courage and pressed delete. Not because she wanted to forget, but because she really wanted to make it work and to do that she couldn't rush it.

She had to walk before she could fly.

Then she heard him. She wanted to run to him, but she walked. She explained. She felt herself tear up and how the emotion filled her throat so the words didn't come out easily.

Until those three words came from his mouth.

And the walking she'd just begun froze in mid-step.

* * *

**Thanks, Anna, for betaing!**


	2. Anesthesia

The dizziness he felt and the extreme brilliance of the room behind his eyelids were the very first things he perceived. He made an effort not to move so as to avoid vomiting what he knew he didn't have in his stomach, contracting muscles he realized felt terribly sore.

His thoughts, distorted into a foggy mass of disconnection, gave him the impression that maybe if he focused on something else the sensation of being about to puke bile, saliva and acids would diminish and, hopefully, go away. Perhaps if he gave his full attention to his breathing the sensation would disappear.

A thread of coherence made its way through his divided perceptions, and he wondered how people that had woken up to what he just had could ever imagine they were dead only from the strong white light surrounding them. His body felt so... _abused_ he had no doubt he had to be alive.

Alive. That concept triggered something inside him. All of a sudden and without a warning, memories that looked as if seen on a screen flowed through him. Images of him and a woman—his wife—Bren—everything—leading a life that for some vague reason was unique; things shared he felt that were special to his life but... how? He knew he loved that woman, how important she was to him, but there was something amiss. Something that didn't fit between that life and what he was.

He heard a grumble but didn't recognize it as his.

His body still felt unbalanced, and reality was still confusing.

"That was a weird dream," he said. It had been a dream, then, right? Had to be. But...

There she was, the woman of his dreams. Literally?

She was saying something, but he couldn't make sense of her words. He saw her face full of emotion—she had to be his wife—or was that only a part of the dream? He just couldn't say what was going on. It was hard to even focus on her, but he felt attracted to her face. It was the same face of his dream... but was it a dream?

"It felt so real," he heard himself say as if trying out the boundaries of what was his imagination and what wasn't.

"It wasn't real," she replied, and this time he understood.

Bones. She was Bones, but—

His wife? Bren?

"Who are you?"

He saw her eyes change, her expression now filled with hurt where it had been full of thankfulness and hope only seconds before. He felt her breath on his skin as it left her, and wondered if it had been his question the one to make her feel this way.

But he had had to ask. If all he knew for sure was that that woman was one of the most important parts of his life, whatever _his life_ was, then he could only hope she'd knew where the missing pieces were. How they both fit together... for even if he felt confused and lost, he had a certainty.

No matter what the rest of the puzzle was, they were the center. Together.

* * *

**Thanks, Hannah and Lisa, for betaing!** I love me BPL :)


	3. At Least

**_Memories not lost_**

_This can't be happening_, she thought.

_Who are you_, he'd said. There was no denying that.

He didn't know who she was.

_He can't have forgotten about... he can't._

She watched as he closed his eyes, slowly, giving her the impression it was an effort for him to do so. She closed her eyes, too, because for her it _was_ an effort to look at him this way.

"I don't know who you are," he repeated, his voice slurred. "I recognize you, but I don't know who you are."

At the sound of his voice she'd opened her eyes to see him, to try to make eye contact.

Maybe if she were able to establish a connection between them, a connection that spoke of their past, a connection that said so much about them, a connection they had shared so many times in the past, he'd be back.

But his eyes were still closed, his breathing just as shallow and regular as it had been a few minutes ago.

"Booth?" she called him. "Booth?!" she took his shoulder and squeezed it hard.

He opened his eyes a bit to then close them again.

Afraid he'd fall back into a coma and not really knowing what she was doing, she started shaking him with one hand while with the other she reached for the call button to alert the doctors something was going on.

Only a few seconds later, a couple of nurses came into the room and took her position. Rationally, she knew she had to give them space to work and yet she wished she could remain close to him, seeing him, hoping he'd open his eyes. Trying to regain some sense of calm, she stepped back while fiddling with her buttons and the things she had in her pocket.

He'd woken up. After four days of fear and anxiety, he'd finally opened his eyes only to add to her already messed nerves. She saw the nurses checking his vitals just when a doctor came into the room.

What had he meant, he recognized her, but didn't know who she was?

A little while later, after he had checked Booth himself and had listened to the nurses report, the doctor turned to look at her. She knew it was time to find out what had happened... if only she knew what that was.

* * *

**_Memories of things to be_**

She opened the door to her apartment, flicked a light on, closed the door. She set down the things she carried on the small table next to it, hung her coat, shuffled through her mail. Abandoned it on one of the shelves adorning her wall, and, her hand still fixed on the mail and the wood they were now on, she let her head rest on it and sighed.

No matter how much work she'd put herself into to avoid going home and having to make a decision, the only thing she'd really achieved by postponing it was tiring herself... which didn't really helped her reach any conclusions.

She went to her bathroom and prepared a bath; maybe if she relaxed she'd be able to think with a clearer head. He'd said it shouldn't be difficult to choose to make a commitment. He'd said that if they were to be honest about the reasons for their actions and about their feelings, the answer would make itself clear.

He'd been wrong on both accounts.

She knew the matter would seem to be simple to an external observer— either she went to his apartment or she didn't, embracing all that meant. But an external observer wouldn't know all the factors—risks were hard to measure. And hard to be ignored when it was you who could face the consequences.

She undressed herself and sunk in the warm, bubbly water.

In the safety her solitude provided, she could accept there was a big part of herself that wanted to throw caution to the wind—he'd explained that particular metaphor to her in a previous discussion and she could see how it fit perfectly to their situation—and simply go to him and let things be... to enjoy what their lives could be if they took what was between them and dealt with it.

Which was what he believed in and what he'd tried to make her understand. And what he'd presented to her as the option he was willing to fight for, if only she were to fight for it too. Because he'd said they'd both need to be together in it to make it work.

So now it was her choice to ignore the '_could_' that changed the meaning in what their lives _could_ be. Now she was to blame if it didn't work—because she hadn't been wise enough to foresee it—and to blame if they lost their opportunity because hadn't believed in them.

Right now, the weight seemed like too much.

She was tired of feeling responsible for so many things.

First she'd been responsible for keeping him safe during a surgery, and she'd failed. He'd went into a coma for four days, because she hadn't remembered to tell the anesthesiologist he was sensitive to medication. Then she'd been responsible for bringing Booth back into reality—like it wasn't an effort to her to be reminded of what things could be, of her own dreams, every time he thought she was somebody she wasn't, really. Even if she'd written herself that way. Even if it had been the way she hoped she were. She wasn't that. And he'd made her face the difference more times she'd thought she could handle.

She'd been responsible for being the voice of reason once they'd realized what had happened. Like being a rational and pragmatic woman _forced_ her to be the one in the position, even when the turmoil inside her didn't facilitate it for her. Even if she would have liked to feel supported by him agreeing. But he hadn't. Actually, he'd pushed. And he was still pushing.

She took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the smell of the lemon and ginger the bubbles were scented with, her muscles slowly relaxing.

Those days after he'd woken up hadn't been easy for her. But she would have never imagined things could be more complicated now.

* * *

**_Memories not lost_**

The first person she saw when she went to the waiting room was Sweets, pacing the place while waiting for her. Just as she got close to him, Cam and Angela crossed the door.

"Dr. Brennan," Cam said not bothering with unnecessary greetings. Both knew they preferred it that way. "We came as soon as we could. Dr. Hodgins is on his way. What happened?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at back at her, concern filling them.

"You all made me promise I'd let you know as soon as I had any news, or I wouldn't have bothered you."

"Nonsense, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said. "We all care for him. Did he show any sign of recovery?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it sooner," Hodgins asked as he joined them. "Is Booth awake?"

"He was for a few minutes," Brennan replied. "But then he fell asleep again."

"That's a good sign, right?" Angela let out, nervously.

"Yeah, yeah, it is," Sweets answered just as anxiously. "It's not unusual for coma patients to wake up and fall asleep immediately afterwards a few times before coming out of it completely... but if he woke up, it means he's emerging from it."

"What did the doctors say?" asked Cam, who seemed to be getting rather impatient with the interruptions. She appreciated the sentiment. The questions—though well meant—didn't give her the time to tell them all what had actually happened.

"They're checking him now, but there's no much they can do while he's asleep. They have to wait until he wakes up to test him accordingly. He..."

"He what, Sweetie?"

She felt her friend's hand on her arm, a sign she knew meant they could see how hard this all was for her. Like they didn't already know. Like it didn't make it even harder knowing they were all witnesses of her being weak.

"He didn't recognize me." she lowered her eyes so she didn't have to see their reaction to that. It was hard enough for her as it was to add the shock she expected them to be feeling right now.

"Has he... Does he have amnesia?"

She had known the question was coming. It didn't matter who'd asked.

What could she reply?

He does. He doesn't.

"I don't know. His doctors said they needed to make some more tests."

"Oh, God, no," she could hear Angela say.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, people. The docs said they have to do more tests to know for sure what's wrong... if anything's wrong at all. Do you know something of the matter, Sweets?" was her boss' call to calm. She had to be thankful.

"Uhm... well," his voice came a little weak. "I... don't, really, I'm sorry. There could be many things and... yeah, we need more tests."

"So we moved from square one, but didn't really go anywhere?" Hodgins asked with more than a trace of frustration.

"We should try to see this more positively... he did wake up, right?"

Brennan closed her eyes and tried to hide the sigh she let escape.

He had woken up. It was a start.

* * *

_Thanks to Hannah (Northwestern here at ff dot net) for betaing!! Even if you were lost in Lost for a while, lmao ;)_

_And thanks to all my fellow chatters for inspiration, support and comments! Quahks for you all!  
_


	4. Body Signs

_**Memories of things to be**_

The distinct clank of metal hitting metal in a constant rhythm used to soothe his mind. To feel his muscles stretching and contracting in the effort of lifting weights connected him to his body, a source of truth and honesty to him.

He'd learned to trust his body messages, especially those that came from his gut.

It had been early in his soldiering days when he'd learned reason alone wouldn't keep him safe. When a bullet was directed at you it wasn't reason the one to tell you in its usually logical and cool way to duck: it was your body reacting. As the years had gone by, he'd understood every small twinge of his body; to know if it was telling him to run, stay, fight, fly. Defend. It was a language he understood and with which he felt comfortable.

As the years had gone by, he'd realized it was something that hadn't helped him survive and be one of the best snipers only during his army days, but something he'd always had. He'd realized he'd been relying on his gut since a child, when it had been that telling him his father was in an especially sour mood and that it'd be best if he just hid with his little brother in the closet. That his mother was going to give up on them—again—and leave for another couple of months. That in those few days after she left and he couldn't find her, the closet wasn't safe enough.

Understanding that had been another sign for him to follow his gut. But now, for the first time in so many years he'd lost track, he was questioning his body's wisdom.

He left the weights on their hook on the bench and sat, drying the sweat drops with a towel. Not taking much of a break, he drank a little water while going to the abs machine and started working out.

It wasn't like he felt contempt for reason, anyway. He'd gone through college and well, tactics were all about logic—even if he always considered what his gut was telling him before took the decision. He knew he was smart; maybe not as much as the people he surrounded himself with these days, but smart enough.

And if there was something he'd learnt from her, it was how much reason could help you.

Or block you.

As he felt the anger rise in him he pushed himself to work his abs much faster, like it could somehow burn away the frustration it caused him how she kept fighting _against_ him and a relationship with him. He'd tried; he'd talked to her, showed her what their chances were. His body had told him to fight for what was between them, so he had. His gut had told him things would turn out fine, so he'd trusted. His heart had yelled at him it was all worth it...

But now he couldn't help but wonder if maybe they were all mistaken and that, this time, he'd be better off listening to his mind and just let things go for he'd done enough.

If only his whole self didn't feel like crap at the thought.

* * *

_**Memories not lost**_

The next time he'd opened his eyes she'd been standing next to his bed, looking down at him, doing nothing more than trying to see a sign of his waking up. This irrationality in her... well, it did lead her to do things she would have never done before. But even as she allowed herself to experiment with those little things, she could feel herself afraid of the outcome. After all, the burden created by her love was too big right now to let her even try to walk.

But he'd opened his eyes. She'd seen the way his breathing had changed and his eyebrows had furrowed before his eyelids had struggled to open as if light was too much for him. And though she didn't notice, she fisted the sheets into her fists trying to stop herself from reaching to him.

At last, his eyes focused on her. And a little smile formed on his lips.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Booth?" she knew she shouldn't let her hopes rise, but couldn't really stop herself.

"Yeah... God, this is so weird," he said, his voice raspy.

"Are you ok? Is there anything you need?"

"Water, please."

As she poured some water on a cup, she realized her breathing was agitated with anxiety—was he back? Did he remember?

She'd been told he could have trouble and that it'd be difficult for him to drink, so she put a straw in the cup and helped him wet his lips first to then start sipping slowly... after all, he hadn't swallowed a thing for almost 6 days.

"How's everyone doing?" he asked in what she considered to be a typical Booth question: the others always came first.

She smiled. He seemed to know who he was talking about, as good a sign as she could fathom.

"They're fine... worried about you, though."

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to see how _she_ was doing. Then he reached for her hand and closed his eyes. Even seeing how tired he still looked, she couldn't help but feel a few butterflies wings in her stomach.

He knew. He recognized her, he remembered the team. Their team.

"Booth... I'm so happy you're awake. I was afraid you wouldn't be the same and I... I know it was foolish of me, but..."

"I don't think I remember what happened."

Ok. If only for the deep sense of disappointment she felt at that, she knew she had hoped for too much. She struggled with herself and let her hand remain in his, knowing how he'd need the connection.

"What do you mean, you don't remember what happened?"

"The last thing I clearly remember is us at the lab." His eyes set on her again and smiled. "How are you feeling? Any morning sickness? God, how long have I been in the hospital? I can't believe I'm missing days out of this process."

_What?_ She thought. He wasn't making any sense. So she held to the only question she felt she could give a proper answer to.

"You've been here for almost a week. Can't you remember what I told you the last time you woke up?"

"A week?" he sounded rather amused by the idea. "I wasn't expecting _that_, for sure. But no, I don't remember."

"Booth... you had a brain tumor." She realized her hand was curled into a fist under his, but didn't even try to relax it. "You were in a coma for four days!"

"Hey... are you ok?"

"No, I'm not ok, Booth, but I think that you're doing worse. I'm calling the doctor."

As she left him puzzled on the bed, she did her best to try to put her hurt in a box inside of her. Maybe she couldn't deny how hard it was for her to see him this way, but at least no one could force her to experience it full force.

* * *

She sat in the cafeteria with an untouched salad and a cup of crappy coffee, wishing fervently for the familiarity of the diner or the Founding Fathers.

But that was an impossibility, so a useless wish. First, going there alone wouldn't be the same. Second, well... Booth needed her. He'd always, _always_ been there for her; the least she could do was do the same for him.

She would have been with him while the doctors tested him, no matter how hard it was for her, if not because they'd asked her to leave: they needed Booth's complete attention.

So maybe it was for the better. She'd convinced one of the nurses to call her cell phone when the tests were ready, so she'd know when she could go and question the doctors about Booth's health. But the fact that she couldn't be there for the process hurt her in itself, more than it would have hurt to watch it all happen.

"Sweetie!" she heard Angela say as she came to her table. "How are you?"

_I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm frustrated as hell and, no matter how irrational this is, I'm angry with him for not being ok and making me love him in spite of all this._

"I'm fine, Angela. It's Booth I'm worried about."

"What happened?"

"He woke up again."

"And what's wrong? It's good he woke up!"

"He doesn't remember what happened... he seemed to be really confused, though he did remember who I was and also asked about you all."

"That's so like Booth," Angela smiled.

"Yes, I thought the same. But you should have seen him, Ange, he was so... unimpressed about what had happened. When I told him he'd been in a coma for four days he chuckled, like it was nothing to worry about. And he asked..." _if I had morning sickness. _"...strange things."

"No," her friend said, concern etched on her face. "What do the docs say?"

"They're testing him now."

Angela reached for her hand and squeezed. "Don't worry, Bren. He'll be ok."

"You can't know that."

"I know. So don't worry. We're all here for anything you need."

Her cell phone rang then. As she told Angela to wait for her, she prepared herself to face what the doctors could say, and went in search of the diagnosis.

* * *

_I'm sorry it took this long to post, but here I am... with a new chap to post soon and even another oneshot for the collection to post later in the day, too! _

_I have a few dreadful tests in the next weeks, so hopefully that won't set me seriously back on the writing. I'm already a slow writer, don't think it'd be nice if I took even longer to update that it is necessary._

_Anyway, thanks to Hannah (Northwestern here at ff net) for her betaing and comments! They can either make me smile or blush, lol._


	5. Under my Skin

_**Memories of things to be**_

She knew she wasn't supposed to be good with analogies, or at least that people didn't expect her to. But she also knew there was some of that ability in her—after all, she was a world famous writer, and her novels were not papers for journals... they were books for the average person.

So when she ran the natural sponge over her skin she didn't feel wrong for thinking she was cleaning not only her physical body, but a little bit of her mind as well.

She needed it. She was more tired than she'd admit to anyone. Not only because of what had happened these last weeks, but was also getting tired of her everyday routine. Suddenly, the lab wasn't enough to make her feel accomplished.

And it was all his fault.

She had changed since meeting him. She wasn't the same woman she was a month ago, a year ago, 5 years ago. She had changed, very slowly at first, then suddenly a lot—to then be so scared by those changes she'd had to hold back and avoid the turning pieces. She tried to stop, to deny, to hold on to what she thought she was happy being. But after several opportunities in which she faced the possibility of losing him, she had no choice but to accept what she felt for him was more than friendship, loyalty and trust: it was love. That elusive term suddenly made sense, like it was waiting for him to show her what it really meant.

And she wasn't sure she was happy about it.

Her skin felt thin now, a rose tinge to it after scrubbing it. As she poured water over herself to wash the lather, she avoided thinking how she could make another analogy in which he was the sponge and her defenses were her skin—him thinning them by the motion of being there, next to her.

Maybe it was too late to stop the analogy.

What she knew for sure was that since she'd met him something had happened to her. It had spiraled down since that day in which she'd answered the phone and his voice had reached her for the first time, so official and business-like, an amazing contrast to his affectionate and sometimes passionate voice of late. Somewhere in between, she'd gone through a metamorphosis of the way she understood herself and the world so stunning that she would have thought it impossible if not evident to her own experience.

Yes, Booth and what she'd lived with him had changed something in her. Now he was asking—proposing something else, something which would make that change definitive.

She unplugged the tub stopper and dried herself before applying a body lotion, a routine so part of her everyday she didn't even register she was doing it.

If only she could feel comfortable in her own skin. That would make the choosing easier.

_**Memories of things not lost**_

"We know it's not amnesia. We know he's not going through some kind of delirium, and the MRI came back negative for inflammation or internal bleeding." Her eyes locked with his through the window's glass, worry lines on his face, as she listened to the doctor's voice outside his room. "We don't think this is the consequence of the surgery, at least not in a physical aspect. We still need to do neurological, psychiatric and psychological tests, but... I think we can rest assured in the fact we've ruled out the most severe medical conditions fitting with the symptoms."

Rest was definitely something she needed, but didn't feel like she'd have any soon.

"What _are_ his symptoms?"

The doctor seemed a bit shocked with her question, like he assumed she'd seen enough to classify them by herself. But replied nicely enough, anyway.

"Well... He's disoriented, confused... has some problems with his memory. We're hoping for the psychiatrist to come and do some more tests in the evening, so we can finally set on a diagnosis and decide the treatment. I've been told you're usually around; are you planning on staying here until the psychiatrist arrives, Dr. Brennan?"

She wanted to be by his side, she wanted to run and escape. She wanted to let Angela take care of him and wanted to never let him out of her sight.

"I suppose I will," she let out finally.

The doctor, a young man of around her age, looked at her with what she thought was understanding.

With a hand on her shoulder, he tried to lead her a bit further away from the room, so she wasn't looking at Booth while they spoke.

"Dr. Brennan... sometimes, when a loved one is ill, the situation for the caregiver is as hard, if not harder, than for the patient. I hope I'm not intruding here, or assuming wrongly, but—you have to know it's ok to need to have your own space, to rest, to put the weight of the situation in someone else's shoulders once in a while. If you need to go home for some time, you should really do so."

She allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment. He was giving her an escape valve, a way of not feeling guilty if she were to decide to leave the hospital. She must have given herself away, made it obvious to him that even as she knew she'd stay, she wished they weren't going through all of this and they still were going on with their lives.

Well, if she'd shown that part of her to him so clearly, then she'd have to show him the part of her that would never leave Booth's side when he needed her.

"Thank you, Dr. Stevens. But I'm staying."

The doctor looked at her for a few seconds, serious, as if trying to guess her reasons. Then he simply smiled at her and gave her a nod.

"Ok, then. Since you'll be around him today, I have to tell you to please avoid confronting him. Remember, he's confused and he won't understand some things or won't be able to remember some others. It's not unusual for these symptoms to go with sudden mood changes. Whatever you tell him, the trick is in saying it calmly. I'll be seeing you, Dr. Brennan. Anything at all, tell a nurse to let me know."

Patting her shoulder once in probably a too condescending gesture, he simply turned and went away.

Breathing deeply, as if she needed to gain strength—and maybe she did—, she turned and walked into his bedroom. He was still looking at her with the same expression he'd bore the last time she'd looked at him.

"What did he tell you, Bren?"

She started a little after hearing the way he'd called her. With an effort, she didn't remain frozen in the spot she'd been at when he'd spoken, but reached his bedside. He'd never called her like that before—that was Angela's way of calling her. From him, she'd learn to expect the familiar _Bones_ she used to dislike so much in the past.

Trying to be calm in consideration of the doctor's advice, she ignored what she could so easily call a simple detail—if she compartmentalized it.

"He still needs some other tests to be sure of what the problem is, but if everything goes fine, we should have an answer this evening."

"That's good, isn't it?" he asked as he reached for her hand again. "Any idea of when I might be released?"

"Booth," she said, not noticing her eyebrows had been raised. "You just woke up from a coma after a brain surgery... I'm not sure it's wise to expect to be ready to go home so soon, especially considering how there's a condition still undiagnosed."

He closed his eyes and let out a small sigh. "I just want to go home with you, Bones."

This time her eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of longing and confusion.

"I would like to take you to your home, too," she squeezed the hand over hers.

His eyes snapped open and his head turned to her, a look of suspicion in them.

"What do you mean, _my _home_?"_

"Your apartment, Booth... corner building, second floor?"

His eyes cleared for a moment, only to then look troubled again. "Yes, that's my place but... what about ours? I..."

He was moving his head in a continuous slight negative motion, struggling to comprehend. She was holding her breath, almost as confused as he was. _Their_ place?

"I don't understand... we..." he took his hand from between hers and massaged the bit of exposed skin under the bandages, the cables and catheters swinging with the motion. "We... are having a baby together, aren't we?"

His eyes had focused on her again, straight and hard, like he hoped for her to have all the answers.

But she didn't. She didn't understand how things seemed to be fine and so completely wrong at the same time, all the while the images of what she'd wrote on her laptop while waiting for him to wake up flitted before her eyes.

She'd written them together, happy, as she told him she was pregnant, his face radiant in the completion a child brought to their lives...

Shaking her head quickly in a small movement, she erased that memory. Her brain quickly provided her with an answer to this particular bit of confusing information: he still thought they were going to go with the plan of trying to have a child, as she had requested short before he'd been taken to the hospital.

"No, Booth, not anymore."

His face showed an alarm she didn't expect. "What do you mean, not any—"

He shut his mouth suddenly, forming a crisp line.

She breathed deeply again, trying to regain some kind of composure, her hands wriggling—the doctor had told her this, he'd explained he'd be confused and emotionally labile. She had to be strong, hold his gaze steadily, make him feel like he could trust her and lean on her if he needed to.

"Bones... you were never pregnant, were you?"

"No. I wasn't."

"But I saw you. You told me. We were at The Lab."

"The lab? When? We barely spent time there in the last case before we had to come to the hospital, and we hadn't been discussing the baby thing for longer than that," she hated to see she hadn't been able to completely disguise a pleading tone in her voice.

He didn't answer, still looking at her. She felt the weight of the situation almost physically over her shoulders, even if she knew that to be impossible. Yet, she felt it. Just like the irrational duality pulling her in such different directions: she wanted to be there for him no matter what, all at the same time as a small worm of shameful wish to retreat, that this would prove to be too much for her in any moment, crept to her stomach again.

But she fought it. And she stayed.

He seemed to have come to a resolution at the same time, for he closed his eyes yet again, letting his hands fall to his sides.

"I don't understand. I just don't. And I think I can't try to, at least for a while."

"It's ok, Booth. Don't force yourself. There'll be time to set everything in its place," she said with a conviction she wasn't sure she felt. "Would you like it if I called someone to come? Angela is in the building."

Still with his eyes closed, he finally smirked a little smile.

"Yeah, I'd love that."

And with that, she took her cell phone and called her friend, hoping that she'd bring some kind of stabilization to the situation, somehow... and that in sharing with her the burden, she'd find and gather all her strength again.

* * *

_Thanks to the wonderful Hannah (Northwestern at ff net) for betaing this chap!_


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